The Friendliest Posse
by Hutchie
Summary: Hannibal Heyes gets shot during a getaway.  Someone from the posse catches up with him, someone he hasn't seen for a long time...


Author's note: I actually am not sure how well this title fits, but I just did the best I could. I'd rather not give away the plot, though I'm sure it'll be obvious fairly quickly. This is one of my favorite stories I've written for ASJ so far. :)

**The friendliest posse**

by Allie

Heyes leaned against the safe, and listened to the quiet clicks of the tumblers. He couldn't help smiling, even though his palms were sweating and it was hard to keep his fingers steady on the dial.

It was one thing to practice, another to do a safe for real, and he'd never cracked this kind before—not for real.

"Hurry up, Heyes!" snapped Wheat, giving him a shove on his arm.

Heyes turned to frown up at the man, and shoved his hat back further. "You're just making it harder, Wheat."

The older member of the Devil's Hole Gang glared down at him, and spit tobacco juice pointedly at his feet. Heyes looked down at it, then turned back to the safe and pressed his ear against the smooth, cold surface, and began to turn the dial again.

As his fingers worked, he inwardly fumed at Wheat for messing up his concentration. This was hard enough!

But it would be pointless arguing about it now. Wheat should know better than to be proddy when Heyes was safecracking. But he was older and bigger than Heyes, and had been with the gang longer. And Wheat obviously wished Heyes, with his dimpled smiles and silver-tongued plans, to keep it in mind.

Heyes knew it, and he knew he'd be paying for it until Wheat accepted him, or he earned a better place in the Gang—or till he could take on Wheat and win. Since he couldn't, he hadn't pushed for a confrontation yet.

And while Big Jim was an all right leader, he didn't interfere in such things; he left the men to find their own places amongst themselves, unless their disagreements interfered with the work.

A whispered hiss, in Jim's distinctive, smooth accent, "Hurry up, Hannibal!"

Heyes grimaced at the sound of his name. It wasn't exactly a pleasant sound to him, since it was usually uttered in a mocking sense, and had been since he was a boy too small and cocky by half to be saddled with such an intimidating name. When he small, half the people he met seemed to think they had to cut him down to size for being so over-named. That no one had succeeded yet was perhaps due more to his stubbornness than anything else.

He much preferred the grown-up sounding "Heyes" to "Hannibal." The shortened "Han" had also been all right. His best friend used to call him that, back at the Home. Except towards the end, when he made Jed start calling him "Heyes" because it sounded more grown up.

He jerked his thoughts away from those pain-inducing memories and concentrated on the satisfying sounds the tumblers made. Never thought he could be distracted from cracking a safe, especially when things were as tense as this.

CLICK! The final one! Heyes grinned and opened the safe carefully, to behold the riches within. "I'm in," he said, in an awed whisper. It never ceased to amaze him that—

"Yore in? Then let us in!" Wheat knocked him aside, and Heyes toppled sideways, barking his shoulder against the safe's door. He grimaced, and rubbed it. The outlaws crowded around him, shoving paper money into gunnysacks.

"Now we ride," said Big Jim. The Devil's Hole outlaws scrambled after him. As usual, Heyes wasn't quite fast enough to escape the elbows that shoved him aside in the hurry. He ended up in the back of the gang, or he ended up with black and blue ribs. He grimaced, unwilling to take the back today even if it meant a few bruises. He wasn't getting left behind!

The men hurried from the bank, their guns drawn. The ones who'd been holding the horses and keeping lookout flung over their reins, and the rest swung into their saddles.

"Good job, Hannibal," said Big Jim. Heyes grinned, feeling a moment of intense, even cocky pride. He was a pretty danged good outlaw, when they'd let him have his head.

Wheat wheeled his horse sideways savagely. She whinnied and almost reared into Heyes' horse. "Oops, sorry," Wheat said sarcastically.

Heyes was left to calm his horse and try to keep from falling out of his saddle. His horse was a particularly skittish one. He certainly didn't get first choice of mounts. By the time he had her under control, the others were ahead, galloping fast, and he was once again in the back.

Heyes glared at the back of Wheat, urging his horse to put on a burst of speed. Just once he'd like to make Wheat look like a fool! And he'd like to stop being treated like the new kid!

Lights and shouts behind them in the town told an all-too-familiar tale of discovery. Heyes grimaced. A posse would be a-comin' and Heyes was last in line—which meant first in line for bullets.

He urged his horse faster, trying to catch up with Wheat and the rest of them.

He could hear galloping hooves already, lots of them. How was it possible to gather a posse that quickly? The sheriff couldn't have had the men already assembled, suspecting something, or he'd have sprung the trap while Heyes was cracking the safe.

Sheriff must've gone into the bar, told every man in there they were deputized and to get moving or else. Heyes' mind cranked frantically. A sheriff who would do that would be a hard man to cross, a not-giving-up kind of man. Heyes swallowed, and kicked the sides of his horse again. "Hyah! Hyah!"

Gunshots rang out. Their report sounded loud, and closer than they ought to. BANG! BANG! BA—

An explosion rent through Heyes right arm, shoving him forward, knifing pain through him. His horse screamed and ran faster. Heyes clung helplessly to the saddle, his right hand gone weak and useless. Wetness streamed down his arm.

He'd gotten shot. How had he gotten shot at that distance? Of all the rotten luck! He couldn't let go with his left hand to staunch the flow, or he'd fall off. So he rode like that, bleeding out, clinging onto his horse for dear life. More gunshots, but none so close and loud now. It was like they had a sniper shooting from the last building, or something, who'd managed to fire off a few shots before Heyes was out of range. And one of those shots had found its mark.

Growing dizzy, Heyes shook his head to clear it. He realized his hands were trembling, and looked down at them. The sun was just rising, barely enough to see by, to see the red all down his right arm. Useless. Would he ever be able to use it again?

_Forget the arm, just ride,_ he told himself sternly. _Your plans are no use if you can't outride lawmen._

But Heyes was weakening; the gang was pulling further and further ahead; and those hooves following in the distance…they wouldn't be in the distance for long.

Heyes calculated frantically. The ground was rougher here. Harder to follow tracks, especially by the faintest early morning light. He'd have to risk it, cut away from the safe path back to Devil's Hole—a long hard ride no matter how you looked at it before you were safe—and hide out in the rough and rocky ground till the posse was past. Later, he could make it out safely, and work his way home to Devil's Hole. If he survived.

_Devil take the hindmost_, he thought grimly. It was terrifying, being in last place, and gunshot, and bleeding out.

He'd have to staunch the flow. He slowed his horse to a walk, steering her left with his knees, onto the rocky ground. She snorted, picking her way cautiously. The ground was bumpy, but the ride less rough than galloping.

Steering now only with his knees, Heyes stripped off his jacket, gritting his teeth at the pain, and then stripped off his shirt. He wrapped it around the freely bleeding wound, tight as he could make it with one hand, then slung his jacket back over his shoulders. It was a cold morning, but he didn't think he could get it the whole way back on, least not while riding. It was hard enough staying balanced.

He gritted his teeth, and rode, clinging stubbornly to consciousness, seeking shelter, a hideout. It suddenly occurred to him, maybe he should've sent the horse on. But no, if they caught up, they'd have seen she didn't have a rider. And if he didn't get caught, he'd never have made it back on foot.

With another bounce in the saddle jarring his arm, he let out a frustrated, pained whimper. There was no point being strong and silent with nobody to hear your bravery. He clutched at his arm, trying to make the bleeding stop.

He bit his lip, worried it. What good was a Hannibal Heyes plan now, when he was bleeding to death and chased by a posse, without any backup? Couldn't hardly expect Jim or the gang to turn back to help him….

There. A scrubby bunch of brush, more weeds than trees. It would have to do. He urged his horse behind them, and then dismounted. He landed on the ground with a jarring thud that seemed to go right from his boots to his head, and clutched his arm, biting his lip hard. It hurt; oh, it hurt.

_Good thing I never got Kid into a life of crime_, thought Heyes. His head spun and he wondered if he was going to be sick from the pain, or pass out. With his trembling left hand, he slung the reins around a scrubby branch, tying the horse loosely. If he died, she'd probably starve here, unless she could get herself free or somebody found her. But he couldn't think like that, he had to plan to live, had to make it happen, not just give in.

He grabbed his canteen from the saddle, and stumbled a few feet further before collapsing to his knees. He let out a groan—and then grew very still, as the sound of galloping hooves drew nearer.

He held his breath. Now was when it would tell. If they slowed, they might think to look here, or spot his trail—any careless blood droplets he'd let spill. The horse was hidden behind the brush. It went higher than her ears, he was fairly certain. But if she moved—if they glimpsed movement through the brush, the brown coat glossy through the leaves and twigs, well—he was done for.

At least they'd have a doctor….

He slumped, gripping his arm, wondering if the bleeding had slowed enough, wondering if he was going to faint.

The hooves thundered past, men riding intent and hard on the trail of outlaws.

Thank God. He slumped, for a moment caring for nothing more than this, that they were past.

But he had to take care of himself now, while he still could. He straightened, biting his lip again, fighting the blackness swirling at the edges of his mind. He let go of his arm and began to open his canteen. He had to hold it clamped between his knees, and open it one-handed. Grimacing, he wondered who on earth had shut it so tightly.

Slowly, a sound took over his consciousness. Hooves, clopping back towards him. One horse, moving slower than a gallop but still fast, determined. Heyes swallowed. He raised the canteen and took a slow drink, then lowered it. He glanced at his horse—quietly nibbling on a few leaves—and lowered himself, scrunching down into itchy green growth, old twigs, briars, and some leftover leaves from last year.

The horse and rider approached the brush, and slowed, then worked back and forth a couple times. Damn them, did they have a skilled tracker? And why had only one of them come back? The sheriff, maybe? Heyes drew his gun awkwardly, left-handed, grimacing. He didn't know if he could shoot somebody at all, much less face to face. He didn't want to find out, but if somebody found him, what was he gonna do?

What was he gonna do?

He felt the blackness bleeding closer at the edges of his vision, like dark clouds of nothing. _Oh no, not now. Stay awake! Heyes, you stay awake. Don't you dare sleep…._

But despite his best efforts, his best internal browbeating, Hannibal Heyes slumped down into the darkness, gun sliding from his hand, just as a figure in brown edged around the brush.

#

Something was squeezing tight, painfully tight on his arm—tighter yet! He woke with a yelp, jerking upright, reaching for his burning, screaming arm.

"Hold still. You've been shot," growled a voice that sounded familiar, and yet not.

Heyes blinked, trying to clear his vision, and stared up at the face above him. It was hard to see. The sun was high enough now he ought to be able to, but he kept almost slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Heyes, you stay with me now," growled whoever it was. Jim? It didn't sound like Jim. Besides, he couldn't have come back for Heyes; how would he have gotten round the posse?

"Who…?" said Heyes, an instant before he passed out again.

#

Heyes came to slowly this time. The sun was high overhead, and somebody was trying to give him water. He was more than happy to drink it, felt like he was dying of thirst, and so weak. He drank, someone's hand supporting his head surprisingly gently. He couldn't remember anybody since his parents treating him so gently, when he was ill or weak or hurt. It was almost a caress, that hand under his head, gently laying him down again in the—grass? They were on the grass now, not in weeds?

He tried to look around—winced at the bright sunlight—and saw trees overhead, and open grass beneath. He'd been moved from his hiding place, couldn't tell how far. Now he looked again for the person's face.

Sharp blue eyes look down at him, worried, reproachful, and—angry.

At the sight of those eyes, a jolt ran down Heyes' spine. He tried to sit up. He knew those eyes! The face was unfamiliar and yet—and yet—add a few years, a little growth, and—

"Kid," croaked Heyes, feeling his throat close up with emotion. "Kid Curry!"

Jed's mouth twisted down, and he gave a faint, sarcastic nod. "Well, if it isn't Hannibal Heyes. You didn't forget me after all."

And he got up and walked a few steps away, crossed his arms and stood staring out across the rumpled, hilly land, his mouth set and turned down. His hair was still curly, but darker now, more brownish than blond.

"Kid," said Heyes again, a soft sound, wondering. "What are you doin' here?"

"Obviously," said Jedediah "Kid" Curry, "I'm saving your sorry life."

"Ah, Kid…" murmured Heyes. He lay back, and closed his eyes, feeling a sheen of wetness at the edges of them. "I'm awful sorry, Kid." But he dropped back to sleep before he could say more.

#

This time when he awoke, it was again to a pain in his arm, pain and nearby warmth. Darkness, all but fire. A dark figure looming over him, doing something to his arm. He tried to roll away.

"Now Heyes, hold still," said Kid's scolding voice, familiar but older and more proddy than Heyes remembered from when he was young.

Heyes gritted his teeth and held still while Kid tied the new bandage tight. Only the smallest of sounds escaped him with the final, extra-tight yank. Maybe Kid tied it extra tight on purpose. Maybe Heyes deserved it if he did.

A hand reached up, brushed back Heyes' hair, quick and awkward-gentle, not quite rough. "Does it hurt that bad, Heyes?"

"Nah, I'll be okay," said Heyes, panting, his voice quavery and weak.

"Wish I had some whiskey to give you."

A fire popped and crackled, and it registered with Heyes for the first time what the dangers could be. "Aren't you afraid they'll spot the fire?"

"Nah, they headed back awhile ago."

Heyes took a deep breath. His stomach growled. "I could use some more water, Kid," he said humbly, knowing the young man wouldn't have any food to give him, and that water was still the most important thing.

Kid scrabbled nearer, sitting at an awkward angle on the grass, holding Heyes' head up again, holding a canteen for him. It was nearly full, and cool-tasting, clean, not like metal.

"You found a stream." Heyes lay back, and licked the moisture off his lips.

"Yeah." Kid's nod was just visible by the firelight. But he wasn't sitting so Heyes could see his face.

"Kid, what you doing riding with a posse? Don't you know you could get killed going after outlaws?"

Kid laughed without humor. "What, you mean like you?"

"Yeah, like me." Heyes' left hand tightened in the grass.

"That why you didn't come back, 'cause you're an outlaw now?" Kid's voice was soft, resigned-sounding. It was surprising how much it hurt to hear.

"Yep," croaked Heyes. "Couldn't have you joining me in a life of crime."

"You could've least kept your promise, come back to see me on the day I got out of the Home."

Heyes' throat closed all the way up for a moment. His Adam's apple bobbed with emotion as he tried hard to swallow.

_Leaving_… because you had to leave the Home at a certain age…. They were strict that way—same as they were strict that you couldn't leave any younger. And so Heyes had gone, Kid had stayed.

Poor Kid…all golden curls and tears in his eyes, watching his best friend in the world walk away to make his fortune in the world.

Hah. That had sounded good, a story to make Kid feel better—make a fortune, come back when Kid was old enough to get out, and they'd travel together and have adventures.

Well, tell that to a hungry boy walking down the road with nothing but the patched clothes on his back. A hungry, skinny boy. Heyes would always be more mouth than muscle. He couldn't get any decent work that winter, would've starved to death if he hadn't started to steal. Could've died a half dozen ways, if he hadn't fallen in with outlaws, and proved useful enough to feed and keep alive.

He taught himself some skills more useful than just being lookout, like safe cracking. He developed his love of poker and his skill at playing the odds, bluffing and reading a bluff, learning when to call and when to fold. Before long, he was a dreadfully skinny, experienced outlaw, still living on the edge, but surviving—far, far outside the law.

When the date came to meet Kid, he'd long since made up his mind. He wasn't going back, not to bring Kid into this life. Jed couldn't make as much of a mess of his life as Heyes had. Kid had always been strong for his age. He'd make it. He had to. Besides, he had his birthday in the summer, not the winter. And there was always a farmer or rancher in need of hired help, come summer….

So he hadn't gone, he hadn't gone back to entice that boy he remembered—that boy who would have followed him to Hell without having to be asked—into a life (or death) of crime.

It was the hardest decision he'd ever had to make. Heyes told himself he'd made the right choice, even believed himself most of the time. Except for the nights he couldn't sleep, wondering what had happened to his best friend, his only real friend.

"Heyes," repeated Kid, gentle and angry and reproachful all bundled together in his now-grownup voice. "You could've come by and kept your promise."

"Kid, I couldn't. You'd have come back with me and turned into a criminal. I couldn't do that to you."

"Thought you died," said Kid, the stark words choked out, painful and raw.

"Aw, Kid, I'm sorry." He grimaced, tried to roll away, to hide his face. The firelight shone on him, while it was to Kid's back. Kid must see every nuance of emotion playing on Heyes' face…. "Seems everything I did was wrong. I thought if I came back to see you, nothing on earth would've separated us again. You'd never have taken 'no' for an answer, and I wouldn't have been strong enough to send you away anyhow. And—I'd have made you a wanted man, as well as me."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Kid," said Heyes urgently. "You gotta—you gotta stay on the straight and narrow. It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you."

Kid laughed, a bitter, triumphant laugh. "Oh, it's not? And how d'you think I survived, Hannibal Heyes? By bein' a farmer?" His voice mocked now. "Yeah, there's a lot of call for spindly orphans who eat more than their weight in food."

"Kid…" Bile rose in Heyes' throat, bile and despair. "It's too late for you or you're just sayin' that?"

"Listen to my voice, Heyes. _I_ never lied to _you_."

The words cut deep, and Heyes swallowed hard. "Kid, I—"

"Save it, Heyes. I'm a wanted man. 'Cause I shot a man before he could shoot me, only he was the sheriff's cousin. Turns out lots of people are willing to swear blind I shot him in the back, in cold blood."

Oh, he'd never heard such bitterness from Kid before, not in all his born days. "Kid, I'm sorry." He hesitated. "How'd you get a gun?"

"They have to let you have a gun, when you're helping to rustle cattle. I always was a good shot, and when the job ended, I kept the gun. I struck out on my own, and—with nobody to watch my back, somebody decided he could take me for the shiny belt I wore." An indignant snort. "I always was faster than just about anybody, Heyes, but now—well, I'm even faster." A faint, defiant pride tinged his words there.

"You'll have to show me," said Heyes. "I want to see how fast you are." A plan was ticking in the back of his brain. "Kid, if you're telling the truth, then we can stick together now."

An offended snort from Kid. "Of course I'm tellin' the truth! I'm not the liar!" Kid erupted to his feet and paced, agitated, to the other side of the fire. "But why the hell should I trust you enough to ride with you?"

Heyes opened his mouth, and nothing came out. Felt like all the air had been kicked out of his chest, and there was nothing left inside.

"Guess you shouldn't, Kid," he said, real softly.

Firelight got all sparkled-looking, when you saw it through tears.

#

Restless dreams; fevered sleep. He kicked off the blanket in the night, and was vaguely aware of insistent arms pulling it close around him again, and someone warm and sturdy settling against his side. Heyes was warm, too warm, and his arm burned, his whole body seemed to be burning up. He struggled to be free, crying out, striking weakly against the strangling blankets, the suffocating heat.

Then Kid was there again, hauling him up, soothing him with a frustrated yet gentle voice, offering him water. Heyes drank, and dropped off again to restless sleep, feeling the back of fingers brushing his forehead, gentle and awkward.

In the morning, Kid Curry was gone. The fire was doused. Kid had packed up his things, taken his horse, and just—left. Heyes felt awful about it.

He drank the water in the two full canteens that Kid had left, and he was trying to think of rousing himself to go hunt for more, or to try to get on his horse and ride, fever burning or no fever burning, when the sound of hooves headed, unerringly, for his position. He crouched, and hunted for his gun, had just found it and gathered it into a weak and unsteady left hand, when Kid appeared, and leaped down from his mare. He took in Heyes with one glance, just looked at him.

Heyes relaxed, lowering the gun.

Kid tied his horse loosely and walked over with confident steps. He had really grown up, Heyes realized. Probably as tall as Heyes now.

Kid held a flask, and uncorked it. "Drink some of this, supposed to help with fevers and pain." He held it steady for Heyes, and watched him with shuttered blue eyes—eyes that didn't hide his worry for one second. He might still look bitter and hurt, and afraid to trust—but he was dead worried about Heyes.

"Kid, I'm not gonna die," said Heyes, as he lay back. Heyes saw Kid's startled, rueful look just before closing his eyes. Heyes smiled.

#

The medicine made time run together, made him not feel the things Kid did to his arm, made him sleep long and deep, with strange dreams, wakening only to drink water, and feel a cool hand brushing back his hair. He knew he babbled things, in his sleep and in his wake, but he never could seem to remember what, though they seemed very important, the most important things in the world when he said them, earnestly, trying to make Kid understand.

At last he woke with a clear head, weak as a baby bird and nearly as helpless. Kid had to help him stand, so he could hobble behind a bush and relieve himself. When he got back, he felt a little more human. And there was food cooking over the fire.

Kid stood up at the sight of him, and smiled. "Mornin' Heyes. Ready for some chow?"

Heyes gave him a big smile, and nodded. "I could eat a horse."

"Don't tell Rosebud that." Kid's face crinkled in a smile, and he nodded in the direction of one of the horses, grazing peacefully, contained on a long tether.

"Rosebud? Kid, that's downright poetic of you, namin' horses."

"Don't blame me. She had that name to begin with." He ducked his head to hide his grin, and held out a tin plate to Heyes. It was scratched and battered, and it held the most delicious-smelling food in the world—scrambled eggs, some rewarmed roasted rabbit, and a piece of old, dry bread.

"Had some trouble gettin' supplies, so you're stuck with wild bird eggs, the rabbit I shot, and the few things I could get in town."

Heyes raised an eyebrow, and asked around the food he was wolfing down, "They suspect anything, when they saw you?"

Kid shook his head. "Nah, they thought I got lost. I hadn't been in town long, just got roped into joining the posse, ya know—I couldn't have refused without makin' 'em suspicious about me. But for all they knew, I was too stupid or scared to keep up. I'm not suspected of anything else—though I reckon you would be, showing up with that arm wound. Sheriff made that shot himself, real proud of it, and mad he didn't bring anybody down."

Heyes grimaced, remembering. "Brought me low enough, Kid."

Kid stiffened slightly at the sound of his name, that old, affectionate nickname that he'd always allowed Heyes to call him. Then he seemed to make an effort to relax his shoulders. "Heyes, I—I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"What should I call ya then?" asked Heyes, gruff outside and aching inside. So much broken—so much to be fixed—if Kid would let it be fixed. If he wanted it to be fixed.

And then he looked at that earnest, stubborn, young-looking but grownup face, that face he still knew better than his own, though so much water had passed under the bridge between them. And he knew Kid was aching with all his might to fix things, just the same as Heyes was.

Heyes gave him an encouraging smile. "Well, Ki—Jed? Should I call you Jed now?" He put on his nicest, most agreeable smile.

Kid's mouth twisted down, and he set down his own plate, as though he'd lost his appetite—if such a thing were possible. "Ah, hell, Heyes, you can call me anything you want if you promise never to leave me behind again."

Heyes found himself relaxing into the most honest grin he'd felt in years. "Well, then, _Kid_, I guess we oughta get ridin'."

Slowly, incredulously, a smile spread across Kid's face, lighting it up like sunshine after a rain. He gave a slow nod. "Guess so, Heyes."

Kid was somebody Heyes could trust to watch his back. Kid Curry, impossibly a gunman, a man who could save his life and forgive his past wrongs; and join him in other wrongs, two outlaws surviving, doing the things outlaws did.

But they'd do better than the Gang, even if they worked with it. They wouldn't leave each other behind, no sir, not ever. And they wouldn't shoot nobody, neither. They'd be—well—not good outlaws, maybe, but the best they could be.

Heyes' arm still hurt, but the fever and the worst of the pain had passed. He ought to be able to ride.

Heyes grinned suddenly, realizing he wouldn't have to put up with the proddiness of Wheat anymore back at Devil's Hole. With Kid Curry at his side, the two of them facing the world together, why, he'd just about be invincible. He puffed his chest puff and filled his lungs with the fresh air.

It was a good day to be alive.

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end

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Second Author's note: This story is probably not canon, as they said something on the show once about running away from the home when they were fifteen-or something like that. I didn't think that made complete sense, as they're supposed to be different ages, but...well, this is my take on it. :)


End file.
